


Through a Glass Darkly

by JoyAndOtherStories



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), First Kiss, Fluff, Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019, Implied Sexual Content, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Partners, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Post-Scene: The Ritz (Good Omens), Since technically they're genderless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:55:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22398940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoyAndOtherStories/pseuds/JoyAndOtherStories
Summary: For the Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019, for Rini2012's prompt: "Aziraphale and Crowley decide to get married after the Apoca-flop because they realize they’ve been in love for thousands of years."
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 166
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	Through a Glass Darkly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rini2012](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rini2012/gifts).



> Thanks to Rini2012 for the prompt! Enjoy!

Aziraphale had taken Crowley’s hand on the bus back from Tadfield, and Crowley still didn’t know what to think about it.

It had, maybe, been a reflex—grasping for the one thing, the one person who’d stayed solid while literally everything else had fallen away.

Crowley had responded—of course—returning Aziraphale’s grasp firmly with his own. And their hands had stayed clasped the whole ride to London—which wasn’t short—and was holding on that long still a reflex? Still a…safety reaction?

Could it be…more?

Crowley had 6000 years of practice at ignoring how much more he wanted it to be.

It was starting to break down.

Right now, for instance—lunch at the Ritz, something they’d done dozens of times—except that this time, Aziraphale was leaning toward him, his hand on the table between them instead of carefully tucked into Aziraphale’s own space. Crowley wanted to bask in Aziraphale’s unrestrained, smiling warmth, and he also wanted to take that hand and wrap Aziraphale up in him and wrap himself up in Aziraphale, and he wasn’t sure if those things were compatible.

Aziraphale laughed, lifting his hand. When he set it down, it was a few inches closer to Crowley, and Crowley’s body took the decision from him—he covered Aziraphale’s hand with his own.

Aziraphale’s voice faltered; the moment hung, fragile as crystal, in midair—

And like a mirror of yesterday night on a bus, Aziraphale turned his hand to match Crowley’s ( _thank—someone_ ), clasped it in response firmly, palm to palm.

* * *

Aziraphale had taken Crowley’s hand on the bus back from Tadfield, and Aziraphale still didn’t know what to think about it.

It had, perhaps—at first—been a reflex—grasping for the one thing, the one person who’d stayed solid while literally everything else had fallen away.

Crowley had responded—thank goodness—returning Aziraphale’s grasp firmly with his own. And their hands had stayed clasped the entire ride to London—which was hardly short—and was holding on that long still a reflex? Still a…safety reaction?

Could it be…more?

Aziraphale had 6000 years of practice at ignoring how much more he wanted it to be.

It was starting to break down.

Right now, for instance—lunch at the Ritz, something they’d done dozens of times—except that this time, Aziraphale found himself leaning toward Crowley, resting his hand on the table between them instead of carefully tucking it into his own circumspect space. Aziraphale wanted to gaze unrestrainedly at Crowley, smile fondly with no worries of who might see him, revel in Crowley’s newfound, smiling ease—and he also wanted Crowley to take his hand and wrap Aziraphale up in him and wrap himself up in Aziraphale, and he wasn’t sure if those things were compatible.

Somewhere in the midst of recounting his struggles to find an appropriate host body, Aziraphale laughed; he lifted his hand, and his body took the decision from him—when he set it down, it was a few inches closer to Crowley.

And then Crowley’s hand was covering his ( _oh, thank—someone_ ). Aziraphale heard his own voice falter; the moment hung, fragile as crystal, in midair—

And like a mirror of yesterday night on a bus, Aziraphale turned his hand to match Crowley’s, clasped it in response firmly, palm to palm.

* * *

They held hands all the way back to the bookshop, and Crowley still wasn’t sure what to think about it.

For 6000 years, he’d made do with every scrap of contact he could get—always with an excuse, always creating justifications—justifications that might be extremely flimsy but were nonetheless required.

And 24 Earthly hours ago—was that all? Really?—he’d genuinely believed he’d lost Aziraphale forever.

And here they were, strolling up to the bookshop hand in hand. It was so much _more_ , so much _better_ than Crowley had ever hoped that he felt he was floating.

And he wanted more.

Could there _be_ more? Could _Aziraphale_ want more? Angels weren’t…romantic. Neither were demons, for that matter. Maybe it was the Earth’s influence that had caused Crowley to crave things like hand-holding and starlit strolls and dinner dates and…and kissing.

He couldn’t help but look at Aziraphale’s lips—perfect and pink and _smiling at him_ , in _public_. He wanted to feel those soft lips against his, kiss that beaming smile, kiss those crow’s feet the smile brought out at his temples—

Hand-holding could probably still fall in the category of very close friendship, but kissing could not. Not the kind Crowley wanted, anyway. Could Aziraphale possibly want _that_?

Aziraphale paused at the door of the bookshop, fumbling automatically for keys he didn’t need; Crowley, distracted, nearly lurched into him. Aziraphale turned toward him, reaching instinctively with his right hand to brace him, and suddenly they were face to face, only inches of air separating Crowley from those devastatingly tempting lips.

And again the moment crystallized around them—

And Crowley and Aziraphale moved like an inverse mirror, lips coming together gently, and the crystal moment melted, caressed them as it flowed past them and kept on flowing, as they stood locked together, in front of Heaven and Hell and all the Earth, on a sidewalk outside a bookshop in Soho.

* * *

They held hands all the way back to the bookshop, and Aziraphale still wasn’t sure what to think about it.

For 6000 years, he’d made do with every scrap of contact he could create an excuse for—always excuses, always justifications—justifications that might be extremely flimsy but were nonetheless required.

And twenty-four Earthly hours ago—was that all? Really?—he’d been close to believing he’d lost Crowley forever.

And here they were, strolling up to the bookshop hand in hand. It was so much _more_ , so much _better_ than Aziraphale had ever hoped that he felt he might be floating.

And he wanted more.

Could there _be_ more? Could _Crowley_ want more? Demons weren’t…romantic. Neither were angels, for that matter. Maybe it was the Earth’s influence that had caused Aziraphale to crave…oh, lovely things—hand-holding and starlit strolls and dinner dates and…and kissing.

He couldn’t help but look at Crowley’s lips—perfect and red and _smiling at him_ , in _public_. He wanted to feel those lips soften against his, kiss that gentle smile, kiss the crow’s feet the sunglasses hid from everyone else—

Hand-holding could probably still fall in the category of very close friendship, but kissing could not. Not the kind Aziraphale wanted, anyway. Could Crowley possibly want _that_?

Aziraphale paused at the door of the bookshop, fumbling distractedly for keys he didn’t need; Crowley, automatically moving for the door, nearly lurched into him. Aziraphale turned toward him, reaching instinctively with his right hand to brace him, and suddenly they were face to face, only inches of air separating Aziraphale from those devastatingly tempting lips.

And again the moment crystallized around them—

And Crowley and Aziraphale moved like an inverse mirror, lips coming together gently, and the crystal moment melted, caressed them as it flowed past them and kept on flowing, as they stood locked together in front of Heaven and Hell and all the Earth, on a sidewalk outside a bookshop in Soho.

* * *

Aziraphale and Crowley were still kissing, inside the bookshop now, and Crowley still wasn’t sure what to think.

Well, he knew what to think about the kissing, mainly that he didn’t want it to stop, ever, and that the places Aziraphale’s hands were going were places they _absolutely_ needed to go, and that both of them were wearing an unacceptable number of layers of clothing—and that Aziraphale seemed more than amenable to taking some of them off, praise—praise whoever.

And Crowley wanted more.

Not more physically—well, _yes_ , more physically, but—

Anyway.

Aziraphale was a hedonist, Crowley knew perfectly well. The angel had pursued every Earthly pleasure imaginable, except this one. And Crowley didn’t mind indulging him— _definitely_ didn’t mind, as Aziraphale’s hand made its way under his shirt and up his spine—but he didn’t think he should do it under false pretenses.

Because Crowley didn’t just want to have sex with Aziraphale, he wanted to bring him flowers and snuggle next to him in bed at night and listen to him read stories and make him tea and—and _bugger_ , he was an utterly hopeless romantic _sap_ , and if Aziraphale was only interested in a new pleasure with his best friend, he deserved fair warning.

With an effort possibly greater than what it had taken to stop time yesterday, he pulled away far enough to look Aziraphale in the face.

And nearly lost the thread of what he’d planned to say, because Aziraphale was flushed, his hair tousled, his bowtie gone and collar undone, and Crowley the original Tempter had possibly never had to fight such a strong temptation—

“Aziraphale, do you—”

“Crowley, are you—”

They both paused.

“Yes, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, somehow as polite as ever in the midst of their first snogging.

“Nope, you first,” Crowley said firmly. He wasn’t about to risk going too fast again. Aziraphale would have to take the lead.

“I—oh, dear,” said Aziraphale. “I wanted to ask if you were sure—that is to say, I want this—what we’re doing—very much, but I don’t want _only_ this—oh, I’m expressing myself terribly.” He closed his eyes for a moment and then looked at Crowley…apologetically? “It’s just that I—I love you rather desperately, and I have for ages, and—and I felt it was only fair for you to know that—that this isn’t only a new Earthly pleasure for me, and if it is for you—that’s—I don’t mind, but—”

Crowley stopped him with a kiss that bordered on frantic. He didn’t bother to pull away this time, just moved his lips enough that he could speak.

“Angel”—Crowley’s voice had the nerve to be hoarse—“if this were just a new pleasure for you, I’d do it, believe me, but you should know that I’m completely, stupidly in love with you, have been since—oh, bollocks—and if we’re gonna start—nnngghhh—unleashing all of that, I—agh, I might drown you—”

Aziraphale cut him off efficiently with a very thorough kiss.

“ _Darling_ ,” Aziraphale said finally, their lips still so close that Crowley could feel his smile. “I’m very buoyant.”

* * *

Aziraphale and Crowley were still kissing, inside the bookshop now, and Aziraphale still wasn’t sure what to think.

Well, he knew what to think about the kissing—primarily that he didn’t want it to stop, ever, and that the places Crowley’s hands were going were places they _absolutely must_ continue to go, and that he’d never realized he wore such an unacceptable number of layers of clothing—although Crowley was going an admirable job of divesting him of them, praise—praise whoever.

And Aziraphale wanted more.

Not more physically—well, _yes_ , more physically, certainly, but—

Anyway.

Aziraphale knew that he was the greater hedonist of the two of them, but Crowley had also pursued plenty of Earthly pleasures, and evidently he was amenable to this one as well. And Aziraphale didn’t mind indulging him— _definitely_ didn’t mind, as Crowley impatiently tugged his bowtie out of the way and kissed him under his collar—but he didn’t think he ought to do it under false pretenses.

Because Aziraphale didn’t only want to have intercourse with Crowley, he wanted to bring him flowers and tuck him into bed at night and read him stories and make him coffee and—and oh _dear_ , he was an utterly hopeless romantic _sap_ , and if Crowley was only interested in a new pleasure with his best friend, he deserved fair warning.

With an effort possibly greater than what it had taken to dive from Heaven to Earth yesterday, he pulled away far enough to look Crowley in the face.

And nearly lost the thread of what he’d planned to say, because Crowley was flushed, his hair tousled, lips parted and eyes wide, and Aziraphale had never so strongly remembered that Crowley was the original Tempter—

“Aziraphale, do you—”

“Crowley, are you—”

They both paused.

“Yes, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, because he might be in the midst of his first snogging, but he was still polite.

“Nope, you first,” Crowley said firmly, and—oh, bother, Aziraphale had been hoping Crowley would take the lead, as he usually did in situations like this.

“I—oh, dear,” said Aziraphale. “I wanted to ask if you were sure—that is to say, I want this—what we’re doing—very much, but I don’t want _only_ this—oh, I’m expressing myself terribly.” He closed his eyes for a moment and then gave Crowley an apologetic look. “It’s just that I—I love you rather desperately, and I have for ages, and—and I felt it was only fair for you to know that—that this isn’t only a new Earthly pleasure for me, and if it is for you—that’s—I don’t mind, but—”

Crowley stopped him efficiently with a very thorough kiss. He scarcely pulled away at all this time, creating only enough space so that he could speak.

“Angel”—Crowley’s voice was tenderly hoarse—“if this were just a new pleasure for you, I’d do it, believe me, but you should know that I’m completely, stupidly in love with you, have been since—oh, bollocks—and if we’re gonna start—nnngghhh—unleashing all of that, I—agh, I might drown you—”

Aziraphale cut him off with a kiss he suspected bordered on frantic.

“ _Darling_ ,” Aziraphale said finally, his lips so close to Crowley’s that they brushed together as his mouth curved into a smile. “I’m very buoyant.”

* * *

It was a few weeks after the world didn’t end, and Crowley knew that Aziraphale _loved_ him, had loved him for centuries—millennia—and somehow there was still one thing that Crowley wasn’t sure about.

Yes, they were together, and yes, it was everything he’d ever wanted, but would Aziraphale want to take that step of saying…forever?

“I wanted this in Rome,” Aziraphale gasped, as they came together on Crowley’s silk sheets. “Oh! Do please keep doing that, dear. I wanted—I couldn’t admit it at the time, of course, even to myself—but I wanted it so terribly badly.”

Would Aziraphale want to commit to having this always?

“I wanted to do this in Wessex,” Aziraphale said, giving him coffee and a good morning kiss, in the flat over the bookshop. “It was so damp and cold; I knew you must be miserable, my dear. I kept seeing how the humans took care of each other, keeping each other warm—I wanted to do that for someone, and it was ages before I knew it was you I wanted to do it for. But it always _was_ you.”

Would Aziraphale want to commit in the way that humans did, with their human traditions, to taking care of each other, always?

A month after the world didn’t end, Crowley found himself on a date with Aziraphale at the Ritz.

Well, strictly speaking, he took Aziraphale on a meticulously planned date at the Ritz, seated at their table where they’d toasted the world, with a selection of Aziraphale’s favorite foods, his own favorite wines, and a pianist playing remarkably romantic pieces for a September weeknight.

Aziraphale twinkled throughout the evening, beaming at the servers, the piano, the food, the wine—and at Crowley, who imagined he must have the planet’s soppiest smile plastered across his own face, and couldn’t find even the remotest inclination to change that. Sometime before dessert arrived, Aziraphale took in a deep breath.

“Crowley,” he said, “this month has been—astonishing.”

“I was going to say the same thing,” said Crowley, taking off his sunglasses, mentally rehearsing what he’d planned to say next.

Aziraphale flashed him that glowing smile and squeezed his hand. “All that time, before,” he went on, “I thought I’d never even be able to say how I felt for you, much less act on it, and now that I can—well—I know it’s a very _human_ thing, and perhaps it’s silly, but I did want to make it clear—not just how I feel now, but how deeply, how permanently—”

Aziraphale’s hands were fluttering nervously, smoothing his jacket, tugging at his pocket—no, diving into his pocket, coming out with a small, black velvet box—

“Wait!” Crowley interrupted him, panicking.

Aziraphale froze. “M-my dear?”

“Eurgghh,” Crowley croaked, “—well—it’s just—” He reached in his own pocket and pulled out a nearly identical black velvet box.

Aziraphale gazed at it, his eyes misting over. “Ahh,” he breathed presently, and swallowed. “Ah—well—after you, my dear.”

Crowley waved an arm. “Nahh,” he said thickly. “You—you can—I—ngk.”

Aziraphale smiled, lighting up their table. He placed a hand on his box, ready to open it but waiting. “Together, then, dear?”

Crowley tried for a steadying breath, and mirrored Aziraphale, putting his hand to his own box. “All right, angel. Together.”

* * *

It was a few weeks after the world hadn’t ended, and Aziraphale knew that Crowley _loved_ him, had loved him for centuries—millennia—and somehow there was still one thing that Aziraphale wasn’t sure about.

Yes, they were together, and yes, it was everything he’d ever wanted, but would Crowley want to take that step of saying…forever?

“Wanted this since Eden, I swear,” Crowley groaned, as Aziraphale undid his trousers in the flat over the bookshop. “Wasn’t even sure what it was at the time. Just knew I couldn’t stop looking at you—agh, _dammit_ , do that again, _please_.”

Would Crowley want to commit to having this always?

“Always wanted this,” Crowley mumbled sleepily, arms wrapped around Aziraphale’s waist, snuggled under silk sheets in Crowley’s bedroom. “Saw th’humans…y’know. Snuggling. Told m’self it was ridic’lous—a demon, wanting to snuggle. Take care of someone. But I knew I always wanted that with you.”

Would Crowley want to commit in the way that humans did, with their human traditions, to taking care of each other, always?

A month after the world didn’t end, Aziraphale found himself on a date with Crowley at the Ritz.

Well, strictly speaking, he took Crowley on a meticulously planned date at the Ritz, seated at their table where they’d toasted the world, with a selection of Crowley’s favorite wines, his own favorite foods, and a pianist playing remarkably romantic pieces for a September weeknight.

Crowley couldn’t seem to stop smiling fondly throughout the evening, in that way he could smile now, in public, that warmed Aziraphale’s whole body. For Aziraphale’s own part, he was certain he was smiling simply ridiculously at everyone and everything—the servers, the piano, the food, the wine—and of course at Crowley. And he had absolutely no inclination to stop. Sometime before dessert arrived, though, he braced himself with a deep breath.

“Crowley,” he said, “this month has been—astonishing.”

“I was going to say the same thing,” said Crowley, taking off his sunglasses.

Aziraphale beamed at him gratefully and squeezed his hand. “All that time, before,” he went on, hoping he’d be able to get through his planned lines, “I thought I’d never even be able to say how I felt for you, much less act on it, and now that I can—well—I know it’s a very _human_ thing, and perhaps it’s silly”—oh dear, he was stumbling badly—“but I did want to make it clear—not just how I feel now, but how deeply, how permanently—”

Aziraphale had lost the thread of his speech; his hands were fluttering nervously, smoothing his jacket, and—without his consent—diving into his pocket, coming out with a small, black velvet box—

“Wait!” Crowley interrupted him, urgently.

Aziraphale froze. “M-my dear?”

“Eurgghh,” Crowley croaked, “—well—it’s just—” He reached in his own pocket and pulled out a nearly identical black velvet box.

Aziraphale gazed at it, his eyes swimming joyfully. “Ahh,” he managed eventually, and swallowed. “Ah—well—after you, my dear.” He doubted he’d be able to speak more than a few words at this point anyway.

Crowley waved an arm. “Nahh,” he said, shakily urging him on. “You—you can—I—ngk.”

Aziraphale smiled, finally sure of what should happen. He placed a hand on his box, ready to open it but waiting. “Together, then, dear?”

Crowley tried for a steadying breath, and mirrored Aziraphale, putting his hand to his own box. “All right, angel. Together.”

* * *

Their wedding was in October, in a garden in Tadfield. They walked the aisle together, hand in hand. They’d never been more sure.

“Our own side,” Crowley had said.

“Together,” Aziraphale had agreed. “Our own speed.”

They wore tailcoats, Crowley in white with black trim, and Aziraphale in black with white trim. They had no officiant—after all, who could preside over the union of two supernatural beings who had been on Earth, and been in love, since before weddings existed? Instead, they faced each other, in front of the friends who’d stood with them when the world didn’t end.

“I’m yours, angel,” Crowley said simply. “Always have been.” He swallowed and shrugged. “And that’s not going to change, not ever. The only place I want to be for the rest of—of however long we have—is with you. And I’m going to make sure that’s a damn long time.” He’d left off his sunglasses, which made it easier for Aziraphale to thumb away the tears that had escaped his eyes despite his best intentions.

“My dear,” said Aziraphale—his eyes were already spilling over, and he wasn’t bothering to stop them at all—“I’m yours as well, entirely yours. I have been since before I ever dared to think it. You stood with me even before I had the courage to stand with you, and your side is where I want to be, now and always.” His lips were shaking, but he smiled anyway, and neither one could stay apart any longer—their arms were around each other and their lips were together, and they kissed under an apple tree.

(In the seats facing them, four eleven-year-olds and Shadwell looked away awkwardly. Tracy and Anathema smiled and wiped their eyes. Newt’s eyes darted anxiously all around, but that was normal for him.)

* * *

A year or so later, they stood together in the door of a cottage on the South Downs.

“So, what do you think?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale turned to face him. “You know what I think, my dear.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Aziraphale slid his hands under Crowley’s jacket. “I think it’s simply lovely, though you’re lovelier.”

“Ngk,” said Crowley, spreading his hands over the curves of Aziraphale’s sides.

“What do _you_ think, dear?”

“I think if you keep doing that, angel, it’s going to be a while before we get to that next crate of books.”

“Ah—good. That’s what I think as well.”


End file.
